The Fall of the Lion
by Ardeth Silvereni
Summary: A look into the Willendorf court in the last weeks of Ottmar's reign - concluding with the Battle of the Last Stand - and Kain's attempts to reconcile his human past with his vampiric future.
1. Part One

The Legacy of Kain series and all related characters belong to Eidos Interactive and Crystal Dynamics.  
A few lines in this story were taken directly from the _Blood Omen_ game dialogue.

**The Fall of the Lion**  
- by Ardeth Silvereni

**- Part One -  
The Lion's Folly: The Dollmaker **

"Oh Father... It's beautiful!"

The young princess of Willendorf, seated at the side of the king, stood and quickly stepped down from the royal dais. Though she lifted the hem of her gown like a lady, her excited childlike manner betrayed her age. Ottmar, the kind and beloved ruler of Willendorf, leaned forward on his throne as she took the offered doll from the kneeling master craftsman. He smiled as she returned to her seat and hugged it close to her, her eyes bright with joy. The whole court smiled at the sight of her innocent happiness. Whispers of praise for the dollmaker's gift rustled throughout the great hall. The other dolls presented that day - nearly three hundred exquisite works - were immediately forgotten, even by their creators. All were awed, and the winner of Ottmar's favour was unquestioned.

"Rise, Master Dollmaker," Ottmar said respectfully, "and tell us your name." When the tiny man had first arrived, the king had felt a pang of distaste and suspicion at his odd gnome-like appearance. Now he was shamed that his initial impressions had been swayed by unfounded prejudice. Ottmar was a good man, and he resolved to absolve himself. He would celebrate the dollmaker's skill, and no prize he requested would be too great.

The dollmaker got to his feet, standing as tall as his small stature permitted. "My name is Elzevir, sire," he answered with a bow. His voice fitted his unattractive body, harsh and high-pitched. Several nobles tensed at the sound of it, but like the king, a single glance at the delighted princess quelled any ill feeling it aroused in them. "I hope her highness likes her birthday present."

"Yes sir, I do. Thank you. Thank you very much." The princess, still holding the doll tightly, beamed as Elzevir looked at her for approval. He responded with a toothy grin.

Ottmar nodded in agreement. "We are most impressed with your talent, Elzevir."

"You are _too_ kind, sire. It is my pleasure."

"Not at all. You have earned your reward." Ottmar made a short sweeping gesture with his right hand, his palm upwards. "Willendorf will offer you whatever you desire. You have only to ask."

"I only want a small thing, sire, but it is not yours to give." Elzevir turned to the princess, and a quiet murmur came from the assembled court as she let him take her hand and kiss it. "Your highness is so lovely and sincere, even to an old man like me," he said. "You have a good soul. Will you give me something, a small token to remember how lovely you are?"

"What kind of token?" She asked. She reached up to undo the clasp of her gold necklace. For generations, Willendorf's royal family had enjoyed and prospered from the great bounty of the provincial mines - precious metals and gemstones. The pendant was set with brilliant ruby and topaz, and it caught the sunlight as she held it out to him. "Will this be enough?"

"Too much, your highness. Too much!" Elzevir laughed. The lords and ladies of the court echoed the chuckle somewhat uneasily. A few noblewomen were privately pleased that they were not being forced to entertain Elzevir as the princess was. One or two were convinced that the dollmaker wanted far more than a mere token of the princess' appreciation.

"I just want a lock of your hair." He said.

Ottmar frowned. A lock of hair was too personal, and could allow a skilled magician to exert influence over the original owner. His advisors and sorcerers would not approve of allowing such a thing. But then again, they constantly warned him of portents and the threat of enchantment. If he listened to all their advice, he would never leave the castle. Nosgoth undoubtedly had some powerful magic users, but Elzevir didn't have the look of one, and they were not subtle individuals. They would attack Willendorf directly, rather than toy with him like this, and his closest neighbour, the Lady Azimuth of Avernus, had never shown any interest in his kingdom. No, the only threat to Willendorf was, and always had been other kings, hoping to expand their realms. They struck with men and steel, not magic.

His decision made, Ottmar let the princess grant Elzevir's wish. A servant brought a pair of delicate silver scissors on a scarlet cushion, edged with bright golden yellow - the colours of the royal household. The servant cut a lock of hair from where it would not be noticed, and the rich brown strands fell into Ottmar's waiting hand. He smoothed them flat, curled them back onto themselves, and the servant tied them together with a small yellow ribbon. The dollmaker stepped forward eagerly to receive the thin loop of hair.

"You do not know what this means to me, sire..." Elzevir said, a deep bow hiding the spark of greed and triumph in his expression...

* * *

No, he didn't. And ten days later, when the princess could not be roused from her slumber, news of Ottmar's anguish spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom and beyond. In public, all of his subjects shared his pain, in private, many of the upper classes believed disaster had been inevitable. They questioned Ottmar's wisdom and judgement, and in hushed voices they wondered if old age had finally overtaken their king. But they loved him still, and none had the heart to speak openly against him.

The court sorcerers took the princess into their care. They saw at once that her soul had been stolen, and only the physical vessel of her body remained. It had been a painful separation of essence and flesh - it felt raw to their probing mental touch. The dollmaker had utilised powerful spells to rip the princess' soul from its moorings and draw it to him, heedless of the agony and spiritual damage it caused her. They tried to coax the soul back with their own charms, but they failed to overcome Elzevir's hold on it. Although they shielded Ottmar from the details of his daughter's plight, they advised him that Elzevir would have to die before they would be able to restore her. They had no doubt that Elzevir was adept at this form of enchantment, and such an ability could only be refined through years of practice.

"_Practice!_" Ottmar had cried. "How many others have shared her fate? Why is this foul magician still alive to work his evil?"

No one could answer, but old Lord Aldous offered a suggestion as to where the dollmaker might be found, so the Army of Hope could swiftly bring his life to an end. He spoke of a region to the north of Nosgoth, beyond the Plains of Blood and close to the kingdom of the Nemesis. There, a deep, little-known lake had long been called the Lake of Lost Souls. According to a historian friend of his, an ancient forefather of the Nemesis had introduced the name, hoping to discourage his subjects from venturing too close. Local legend claimed that people had been found on its banks, uninjured but lifeless. They appeared to be trapped in an endless deep sleep, like the princess was now.

Three regiments of Hope soldiers departed within the hour, lead by Aldous' and Ottmar's nephew, Everard. The ninth Duke of Coorhagen was the son of Princess Avis, the youngest of Ottmar's two sisters, who were both now deceased. Though Aldous had been married to the elder princess Odette, their sons had not survived beyond infancy, leaving Everard as Ottmar's closest male heir. If the princess was truly lost, Everard would succeed Ottmar as the king of Willendorf. The obvious conflict of interests was not missed by Ottmar's advisors. Everard's ambition to rule was well known, and Elzevir had removed the duke's only barrier to the throne.

The advisors could see only two possible outcomes. Everard could fail to rescue the princess' soul. No one would ever know if he had found the task impossible, or if he abandoned the search prematurely to secure his inheritance. He would sacrifice his reputation as a faultless and glorious warrior, but he would be the undisputed king within a few short years. Alternatively, if he returned with the dollmaker's head, Everard would be given a hero's welcome, and his popularity would increase tremendously. He was respected already, especially in military circles, but he was not well liked by the people. Riding on a wave of public adoration in Willendorf, he could convince the Coorhagen nobles to support him in a bid for the throne. He would argue that Willendorf needed a powerful monarch, not a king who could be deceived, or a weak girl queen. Ottmar would regain his daughter, but certainly risk losing his kingdom. The advisors believed the second outcome was more likely, as Everard would not wish to lose his grip on the army. His influence would crumble if the generals though he was weakening.

"He can _have_ the kingdom!" Ottmar had shouted, silencing their words of caution. "He can take it and be welcome to it, if he brings her home safely!"

* * *

In the great library of Willendorf an aged and yellowed tome sat, long undisturbed and covered with a thick layer of dust. Its contents were unknown to most, but soon no one would dispute what was written inside. It spoke of an ancient Seer. The Seer had prophesied the rise of the Nemesis and his army, enormous enough to destroy everything in its path. Soon no one would doubt the accuracy of what had been foretold, the orgy of rape, torture and murder that would accompany the advancing forces.

But Oracles rarely understand all of their visions, and when they do, they are selective in what they reveal, misleading or aiding the curious at their whim. Even the most truthful and gifted Seers cannot see every disaster. There had been no warning of Elzevir, nor of the plague that would seize Everard's city in his absence. Coorhagen had thought itself prepared and safe from the pestilence that spread from the east. Their overconfidence was shattered as hundreds died. It was as if the fates had conspired to ensure the Nemesis' victory, heaping misfortune after misfortune on Willendorf and her people.

Days passed without word from Everard's regiments. The days stretched into weeks. When a messenger finally did arrive, he spoke not of the princess, but of the devastation they had seen at Stahlberg. Until recently, the academic city had been a centre of learning, and sons of noble families had attended its universities - but not any more. The Legions of the Nemesis had laid waste to the city, killing every man, woman and child they could find. Corpses were impaled and left suspended on poles in the street. There they had rotted, surrounded by dark pools of coagulated blood. Carrion for scavenging birds and beasts, their hanging limbs had been gnawed and white bone protruded through blackened flesh. Aldous commented bleakly that the massacre was reminiscent of the days of the Sarafan's Vampire Purge, over five hundred years ago. But these were _people_, not monsters, and did not deserve such a death. He begged Ottmar to put aside his grief and recall his troops to protect Willendorf. Ottmar refused. When Everard demanded aid for Coorhagen, even he was not allowed to leave the search party.

"Willendorf will be next!" Aldous pleaded. "At least give us the means to defend ourselves against William! Let Everard return to Coorhagen, while he still has a city left!"

His words fell on deaf ears. The court was collapsing from the centre outwards, as if its foundations were built on quicksand. Ottmar was retaining his throne, but the Nemesis would only have to walk in to take it.

* * *

There seemed no way to halt the decay. Then the vampire arrived. Kain dropped his disguise as soon as he had earned his audience with Ottmar. To the king, _anyone_ willing to save his daughter was a friend. Even one of _them_. Aldous and the advisors were too desperate to protest, even when Ottmar offered his kingdom as a potential reward for the fiend.

No one expected him to succeed where Willendorf's best were failing.

"I do not know that I can thank you enough, warrior." Ottmar said, the weight of his misery lifting the instant he spotted Elzevir's head. Kain had it gripped by the hair. He held a doll in his other hand. "My kingdom is but a small price to pay for my daughter's life. Willendorf is yours, if you wish it..."


	2. Part Two

**The Fall of the Lion**  
- by Ardeth Silvereni

**- Part Two -  
The Lion Cub: The Duke **

I was conscious of Everard rushing into the hall behind me, the noise of his armour announcing his arrival. Steel clattered on stone. I ignored him. "'Tis not your kingdom I desire, but your army, Ottmar." I said calmly. "I require troops to vanquish the horde that descends upon us from the North."

I heard the duke halt abruptly, and breathe a deep sigh of relief. He had no doubt been holding his breath, waiting for my response to the king's generous offer. I knew some of his men had seen me leave Elzevir's home, and he had followed me back. He had no wish to fight a vampire for Willendorf's throne, and I was likely to live far longer than his elderly uncle. Such a shallow, self-interested man. A fool too, if he suspected that Willendorf would ever accept me as its ruler over him.

Even Everard wasn't _that_ unpopular.

"Very well." Ottmar said with a decisive and approving nod. He spoke loudly to the people who were pouring into the back of the room, excited and curious to learn what had happened. "Courtiers, fetch me my armour and mace. _There is war to be waged!_" He shouted. He was greeted by a hearty cheer from the growing crowd. Their king had come alive again, and they would follow him to their deaths, if he asked.

I was bemused by the scene, and unsure of my next action. It would be a few hours at least before the army could be regrouped and briefed. Lacking anything more pressing to do, I continued to watch the Willendorf citizens for a while. There was no need to beguile them; I might as well have been invisible, such was their preoccupation with the good news. 'Tis a good thing my ego did not require their congratulations. Another man may have been irked when none were offered.

A smithy and his apprentice soon wheeled in a cart, heavy with newly-repaired weaponry - swords and shields. A good few youths were pestering a soldier to let them sign up for duty. Everyone was willing to do their bit for the great cause. _How quaint..._ my cynical self started, but I cut the thought off dead. Cynicism usually served me well - the less one expects, the less one stands to be disappointed - but it had no place here. I realized that as I observed their enthusiasm and joy, I was finding it bizarrely infectious...

I was home.

Of course, this wasn't Coorhagen, but I felt a twinge of pride in my heritage that I had not known in years. I had abandoned the court in my early twenties, preferring to explore Nosgoth rather than live the closed, unexamined life of the upper classes. I exploited my nobility only when it suited me, although I believed I always conducted myself as a lord should. Was I seeking acceptance, now that my ostracism from these people was no longer voluntary? Mortal stubbornness could be overcome, forgiven and forgotten, and I could have been welcomed back into the fold whenever I chose. Vampirism was a different matter entirely. I was forever a pariah. My distaste of Ottmar's earlier self-pity faded as I pondered this. I even started to justify it to myself, rather than risk shattering the fragile sensation of _belonging_ again.

Gazing around, I noticed Everard, standing in a darkened alcove, out of the way. I couldn't read his mind, but his expression and stance clearly reflected his turmoil of emotions. He did not share the jubilation of the rest of the court. Instead, anger triumphed over his earlier fear, barely concealed, as he realized how close he had come to losing everything he craved. He was furious at Ottmar for almost giving the kingdom, _his_ kingdom away. He was bitter at himself, having wasting the opportunity to ingratiate himself with Ottmar and Willendorf's people. More than anything, however, he was enraged that _I_ had rescued the princess' soul, usurping his glory and simultaneously compromising his position in the court.

He always _had_ been a bad loser.

With a smirk, I remembered my youth in Coorhagen. Everard and I were the same age, and nobles only socialised with people of a similar rank. My parents had encouraged me to befriend him, as it did our family good to be associated with Princess Avis and her son, even if he was a spoiled whining brat. Inevitably we never got on well. On one memorable occasion he flew at me after I broke his blade. Everard had trouble mastering the sword but hated to be beaten at anything. I managed to knock out one of his teeth before we were wrenched apart, still screaming curses at one another.

Luckily we were only eight years old at the time, and the tooth grew back. I didn't permanently ruin his looks.

My nostalgic musings were interrupted by the bustle of Ottmar's sorcerers. I had laid the doll and Elzevir's head before the king, and now they were examining both carefully. They passed the head between themselves, holding it by the hair as I had, and it rotated slightly in their grasp. The face seemed fixed in a macabre grin, lips drawn back from the teeth, mocking them and their futile efforts to save the princess. One sorcerer beckoned a page, then he and five others carried the comatose girl out of the hall, lifting her bed on to their shoulders. The scene struck me as reminiscent of a funeral procession - a cortege - save for the smiles the men wore.

"It's hideous." A large woman said intrusively, and I looked in her direction, drawn by the sound of her voice. She was clearly one of those nobles who eschewed subtlety, harbouring a misguided and inflated opinion of herself. She was pointing at the doll that held the princess' soul. It was crudely fashioned, hastily stitched with odd buttons for eyes. It could have been the first work of a disturbed child, except for the lock of hair nailed to its crown. "Why didn't he make another beautiful one?" She said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "That's horrible!"

"The poor girl..." Another lady commented mournfully.

I decided I had heard enough, and that it was time to take my leave. My tolerance of other people was limited even when they were interesting, and these women certainly were not.

* * *

"Kain? May I speak with you?"

Everard approached me as I was trying to remove myself from the busy hall. His years in the Army of Hope had strengthened his body, and he had grown to an impressive height. Despite this, I found it hard to forget the child he had once been, and I could not take the warrior Everard seriously. I was pleased to see he still knew me. Vampirism had not yet distorted my appearance as it had Vorador's, but I had been afraid that I was flattering myself, thinking I had left an impression on him during our boyhood years.

"I believe I am to be addressed as _Lord_ Kain now, your Grace." I bowed my head ever so slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement rather than acquiescence. My father and brothers are no longer among the living."

"Neither are you." Everard muttered.

"Touché." I smiled, allowing him to see my canines for a moment.

Everard swallowed visibly, but he did not miss a beat. "In fact," he said, brightening a little, "a cousin of yours has already asserted his right to the family title. He heard about your unfortunate demise. In Ziegsturhl, was it not?"

Everard found that highly amusing, regarding Ziegsturhl as a cesspool at worst, and a filthy, lawless peasant village at best. I could only imagine the minor scandal my murder had caused, as my reasons for being in such a place were scrutinised. Surely it was better stopping in Ziegsturhl - and being assassinated by brigands - than risk expiring in _fragrant_ Steinchencröe with some whore's knife in my back? Experience informed me that this cousin of mine might not agree. In his case, the apple had fallen very far from the tree, producing a man with low standards, no taste and apparently no sense of smell. "Then perhaps you could tell him to assert that right in the same room as me." I suggested helpfully. "You may find him willing to step aside..."

I let him consider my statement. He stared disdainfully at me for a while, then stumped for a witty retort, his mask of civility fell. "Why did you come back here, Kain?" He lowered his voice to a hiss. "You were not welcome before, and you _certainly_ are not wanted now! _Leave!_ Leave now, or I'll - "

"You'll what? This ungrateful attitude does not become you, _your Grace_. You should be thanking me, as Ottmar is."

"_Thanking_ you?" Everard was incensed. "Do you know what you've done?"

Of course I did, but did he? _Really?_ Did he realize that I might have saved his precious kingdom for him? Victory over the Nemesis was unlikely at best, but at least Willendorf was in a position to fight now. The Army of Hope had a chance. What pretty delusions had he concocted for himself? Had he thought Willendorf would rise up more quickly to oust Ottmar and embrace him as their king? Did he think, as the fledgling monarch of a disillusioned kingdom, he could stand against the might of William? Idiot. His failure to save the princess earlier would likely cost him everything, including his life. Whether it had been selfish inaction or inability, it didn't matter. I had given him a prayer.

"I have gained an army." I said, as cordially as I could manage. "And as you heard, I will use it against the Legions of the Nemesis."

"_My_ army. You seriously expect me to follow _your_ orders?"

"My orders are only to engage William's forces, and defend Willendorf." I replied offhandedly. He was starting to bore me, and my mannerisms showed that. "It is up to you if you follow them. However, should you _not_ fight, it might reflect badly on your Grace. Desertion is an ugly word, and _treason_ is even worse."

Everard looked shaken. "Treason?" He asked. A tremor crept into his voice. He pushed his fingers through his short, dark hair in exasperation. "You refused the kingdom, Kain." He said. "You are not the king. Nor will you ever be."

"No. Your uncle is, and he will be leading the charge. 'Twould be a pity to see his noble line descend into cowardice, Everard."

He knew he was beaten. He was not clever enough with words to regain the advantage in our conversation, and I was embarrassing him. "I will have you staked by the dawn, Kain." the duke promised icily. He was wiggling his index finger at me like a scornful nurse, and I found it vaguely comical. "When this battle is won, I will drive a spear through your black heart, and leave you convulsing in the sunlight."

"_If_ you win, and if the Nemesis doesn't do the same to you first..." I said. Verbal sparring with him was no longer entertaining. He wanted me twitching on a pole like an insect stuck with pins. I could wish him nothing less in return.

I turned on my heel, ready to walk away, when Ottmar himself requested my attention. I offered a bow, just a bit deeper than the one I had given Everard earlier. Ottmar - the man - had done little to earn my respect, but I had grown up loyal to the Lion's throne. I had worn the armour of Willendorf's militia. I was now dead, and my iron armour was tarnished by Necromancy and hellfire, but some vestige of that allegiance remained. And I was nurturing it. On an unconscious level, I _wanted_ his approval.

"Nephew," Ottmar ventured, touching Everard lightly on his shoulder, "could you ready your men? We are to advance this eve, before our enemy learns our intent." There was sensitivity in his tone; he had seen the animosity between us. Perhaps he understood the other's frustration better than Everard realized. He did not wish to antagonise the duke more at this time. I was reminded what a renowned diplomat Ottmar had been in his younger days. Some skills, once learned, are never unlearned.

I did not have the same tact on this occasion. "Goodbye Everard." I called casually after him. "I will see you on the battlefield." His expression could have soured milk.

* * *

"You will fight with us, then, Kain?" Ottmar asked. He had invited me on a leisurely stroll through the palace corridors, where we could enjoy some small measure of privacy. It was quiet, and muted sunlight illuminated the halls. The peace was deceptive - the calm before the storm.

"I do not see that I have a choice, your Majesty." I replied.

"I'm sure you will be a great asset to our cause." Ottmar was every inch a king. He held himself with dignity, and was resolute in the face of adversity. I could see why he was so loved. But love alone would not win this war. Indeed, it had proved to be Ottmar's greatest weakness. If I took any lesson from Willendorf, it should be this.

We walked a little further, and emerged onto the battlements that divided the castle from the city. Ottmar paused to gaze down wistfully, observing the shops, homes and people below. I let him have his moment, allowed him to absorb the sounds and smells of his troubled kingdom. The warm aroma of freshly baked bread wafted upwards, tinged with the scent of exotic spices. Mothers ushered their children through the streets. Life continued, for today. After a long silence, he spoke sadly. "This is not the future I wished for Willendorf." Ottmar said. "A day, two days... there may be nothing left..." I held my tongue. What comfort could I possibly offer, under the circumstances?

"But while we breathe, there is still _hope_." Ottmar said suddenly.

"Some, your Majesty." I replied.

"Perhaps with the Soul Reaver on our side, we will triumph... Pray tell, Kain - how did you find it?"

I decided to humour Ottmar and retell the tale. I think it was more for my enjoyment than his, as I was still rather proud of myself for claiming it. How I, Kain - petty noble and drinker of blood - had ended up fated for such a weapon was anyone's guess. I described Avernus, the heavenly dimension, and the winged statue that held the blade. As I reflected, I felt something akin to childish excitement rising in me again, as it had when I first grasped the sword. The boy who had heard the legends of the Soul Reaver never _dreamed_ he would one day be wielding it.

"That is good." Ottmar said when I had finished. "Rumours had placed it in the possession of the Nemesis. I am thankful that you carry it, and not one such as he." I almost laughed out loud at the comment. _One such as he?_ Was a vampire not equally bad? Evidently Ottmar's gratitude towards me had entirely blinded him to my nature.

"Do you feel its dark hunger?" Ottmar asked. I had to admit that I did. I had been aware of the Reaver's sentience from the beginning. "I always thought that would be a most terrible thing," he said, "to be a spirit trapped, restless and tortured in such a shell... Oh, make no mistake, the blade is remarkable, but..." For the first time since taking it up, I contemplated the origins of the Reaver's conscious entity. I supposed Ottmar was right - it did not possess the sword, the sword possessed _it_, imprisoned in its cold corporeal form.

We both knew he was speaking about the princess, and not the Reaver at all. I ran my fingers idly over the carved skull. A terrible thing indeed, with no hope of rescue or release.


	3. Part Three

**The Fall of the Lion**  
- by Ardeth Silvereni

**- Part Three -  
The Fall of the Lion: Death of a Pride. **

The air had a biting chill as the Army of Hope prepared to meet the Legions of the Nemesis. It was dusk, and the sky was the colour of blood.

I was on the hill, some distance away from Ottmar and Everard. If the duke wished to carry out his threat against me, this battle would have to be unusually brief. I looked around at the assembled forces. Soldiers in clean ivory armour surrounded me, equipped with swords and large shields. Too many of them were boys, a few years shy of manhood, and painfully inexperienced. Young and old stood side by side for Willendorf's - nay, _Nosgoth's_ - last stand. I drew the Soul Reaver, avoiding their eyes when they gazed nervously in my direction. I had little obligation to them, despite my fondness of Ottmar, and if necessary, I would glut myself on their lives to sustain my own. This was a war, after all. I intended to survive it.

The battle _was_ brief. Ottmar's encouraging call to arms was not enough to stop the inexorable march of the Nemesis. The Legions swiftly cut a gory path through the Hope regiments. Lord Aldous was cut down within minutes, and Lord Darrin - the king's cousin - was promptly dismembered when he tried to halt their eastern advance. He had tried to hold his ground with just two dozen men. _Imbecile_, as if the odds were not already stacked against him. There was no need to gift the Nemesis with his suicidal stupidity.

_I_ would not make such a mistake.

_... Would I?_

The truth be told, as a mortal I had never commanded other men like that. Not that I had much reason or desire to, but it meant my leadership skills were untested. I realize now that the seed of an idea was sown when I saw Darrin hacked apart in front of me, one that would not bear fruit until several years later. Suffice to say, those skills have been tested now, at both Freeport and Provance.

I quickly lost count of the soldiers I killed. They came at me in throngs, no fervor so strong as that inspired by a madman. The Nemesis armies were fierce and showed no signs of subsiding. The Reaver let out an ungodly wail with each swing and greedily consumed their souls, destroying the fragile housings of skin and bone. The red Legion armour could not possibly blunt its raw power. Occasionally, other soldiers collapsed near me, and when they did, I refused to discriminate. I sated my thirst on warriors of Horde and Hope alike; the dying relinquishing their final moments to give me strength.

Perhaps an hour passed before there was a lull in the fighting, and I found myself temporarily without an opponent. I seized the opportunity to take stock of my surroundings, and the current state of play. Mutilated white-clad cadavers lay everywhere, missing limbs or heads, or gutted so their intestines became trampled underfoot. Other bodies were impaled upon stakes, as was common practice for the Nemesis forces. More than anything else, I recall the smells of that battle. As I progressed up the field, there was a nauseating stench of roasting flesh, rising from remains thrown into fires; there was the odour of sweat, and every few seconds the sweetly metallic scent of gouting blood overwhelmed my senses.

Ottmar endured far longer than most of his subjects. He acquitted himself well in combat, despite his age. As I got closer to him, I saw that Everard still lived too, twenty feet away, and engaged in a vicious duel. I was confronted by another two Nemesis soldiers. At this point, my magical energy was exhausted by the demands of the Soul Reaver, forcing me to change weapons. I dropped the blade for a moment, so I could grasp two flays and two implode spheres. In the periphery of my vision, I noticed that Everard had killed his foe, and was moving to aid his uncle. By the time I had dispatched my assailants, the duke was almost there. He was positioned perfectly behind the Nemesis soldier that Ottmar was fighting.

Ottmar was losing. He fell to his knees, and the soldier raised his serrated blade to deliver the fatal blow. Everard did not intervene. The duke, purposely delaying his strike until it was too late, watched his uncle crumple. He then decapitated the soldier. As I reached him, Ottmar was undoubtedly dying. A deep, ragged gash ran across his left shoulder; the carotid artery was severely damaged and probably the jugular vein as well. How ironic that my childhood schooling came back to me in such a way, that I could clearly remember the basic anatomy of blood vessels, when so much else - literature, history and the like - was forgotten. My poor tutor would have been horrified to learn how I benefit daily from that knowledge now.

"The Nemesis and his horde fall upon us, my friend." He said horsely to me, reaching out with a trembling hand. "I fear I can defend Nosgoth no longer. The Nemesis must be destroyed. For my daughter, Kain. For the world..."

Everard rushed to Ottmar's other side, pulling off his helmet and crying in an overblown display of mock grief. He took the king's fingers in his as if to comfort, whispering tearfully into his ear. I could not discern the words, but I suspected he was setting the stage for his accession. Who could question if Everard claimed he was named as Ottmar's successor in those last minutes? Not I. As I had acknowledged - before this battle even started - I could not compete with even Everard's limited popularity. No one in their right mind would take my word over his. I was disgusted by the spectacle, but I expected little else of Everard by now. I retreated a few steps away from them both as Ottmar breathed his last, and his glassy eyes rolled back, sightless.

"The King is dead," I muttered. "Long live the King..."

As if he had heard me, Everard turned his head in my direction.

"... Or not." I added with a smile.

Everard's skull was split apart from behind, by a soldier he had completely ignored. Even with a helmet, he would not have lived, but without it, I got to see the marvellous look of shock on his face. His mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream, and scarlet rivulets coursed down over his eyes. His arm lifted slightly, as if to feel for the wound, but it was far too late for that. Everard's body buckled under its own weight, and lay unmoving across Ottmar's cooling corpse.

* * *

The tide turned with Ottmar's death. I watched as the remaining survivors of the Armies of Hope fled to the safety of the forest. The battle had decided its victor; the fate of Nosgoth now lay in the Nemesis' hands.

The Lion of Willendorf had fallen, and for me, that brought about an epiphany, long overdue. I saw the court for what it had become - an obsolete institution surviving only on past glories. Everard's betrayal of his liege lord and uncle was the final proof. There was no integrity left, no _nobility_ amongst the noble. _Noblesse Oblige_ was a dead concept. Why was I surprised that Willendorf had come to this? Gripping the Time Streaming device tightly in my hand, I at last discarded the image of myself as a human lord. I realized I had been clinging to shadows, reluctant to reject my upbringing and embrace my curse.

* * *

Thus concluded the second of three events that steered me away from my mortality and old 'humanist' morality. The first, of course, was my vampiric rebirth at the hands of Mortanius. How harshly I had judged Vorador for his acceptance of our nature, and yet he is the only one in this whole twisted mess who ever spoke the truth to me - not half truths or outright lies. But do I flatter him and say his execution was the third watershed? No, not while he infuriates me with his cautious council as we plan to take Meridian. I will let Moebius' manipulations have that honour instead, and if he likes he may share his prize in hell with my Necromancer sire.

I let them both play me like a fool, those wizards of Time and Death. My confused dual memories reveal some results of the Time Streamer's meddling. In this altered reality, Ottmar did not die at the Battle of the Last Stand; it did not take place because the Nemesis was not there to instigate it. I still struggle to determine exactly what has changed, and what has remained the same, but it is ultimately irrelevant. How blind I was, yet I refuse to dwell on my folly, except to draw strength from the anger it fuels in me. It was that anger that saved me from an act of even greater stupidity...

_I drew the Reaver, knowing that in battling the Unspoken - Hash'ak'gik, I presumed - I had drained my magic reserves to the point where the sword was near-useless. It was certainly no better than my Serioli iron sword, but who could blame me for wanting to end my life with it, this beautifully crafted, legendary blade?_

_Ariel, evidently once so pretty and adept in enchantments; what did she know of weaponry? It is impossible for one to turn the Reaver upon themselves in a dignified fashion - it is too long to be plunged into the heart smoothly like a dagger. Had she realized this, she may have guessed my decision and intention sooner._

_"I will not." I shook my head and pointed the sword at her insubstantial form as she hovered expectantly in front of the Balance Pillar. My Pillar. "You said this curse would end, spirit!"_

_"I said there was no cure for death, Kain, only release" she replied softly. "I never deceived you, you deceived yourself... as you continue to do, even now."_

_"To hell with you and your damnable riddles! Damn you all, sorcerers!"_

_"You entertain a fantasy that there is another way out for you" she pressed, even as I swung the Reaver ineffectively through her fading ghostly shape. "But there is not. This is what you were called to do. Please, Kain! There is no other way to save Nosgoth..."_

_She reappeared moments later, sorrowfully trying to force my hand, pleading with me as I turned my back and walked away._

_"Then it will not be saved." I said._

_A flash of cataclysmic lightning - like the judgement of a vengeful god - rocked the clearing, and the Pillars exploded into fragments behind me._

Did she really think I would sacrifice myself for the world, for herds of verminous mortals that would not even know my name, let alone thank me for my selflessness? And if the Circle - Azimuth, Nupraptor, and no doubt the others - had hoarded power and wealth because their birthrights permitted it, then am I not the sole inheritor of this land? As the Balance Guardian, is it not mine to do with as I please?

* * *

I am not a human any more, and for that... I am thankful. Wielding the Soul Reaver, I am earning my own titles - I am known as a _monster, fiend_ and _demon_ - titles that better suit my dark existence. The sword's hunger resonates with my own, and I am forging my own nobility from the blood of these pathetic, pitiful mortals who think they can best me.

One day, they will all know me for their lord.


End file.
